Now, all the children aged ten years and older worked, but also spent hours in their schools. Every child raised in the Creche was well fed, well dressed, adept at reading and writing, and knowledgeable in maths.

Though the man never took credit for it, Rhys knew the Blacksmith had been responsible for the strong direction the Creche had taken after the revolution, pouring money into it, staying in the background while offering the children advice and support. For as long as Rhys had known him, the Blacksmith had a soft spot for children.

Rhys hadn't, not until recently. Before Anne, before the possibility that he might have his own with Mina, he'd never thought of them much. They'd simply been there, boys on his ship who'd needed extra protection while they learned the ropes-and he gave it to them. After settling in London, there'd been the urchins who didn't live in the Creche and that needed small jobs to survive, and he gave those to them. To Rhys, the Horde's creches had been a place for children to live until they went to work, and he hadn't known any other way-so when the Horde had fled England, he'd provided work. But he recognized that the Whitechapel creche was better. For some children, it was better than a life with their parents would have been.

Until today, he'd believed Anne thought that living at his home was better. Now he wasn't so certain-and G.o.d, that uncertainty tore him apart.

Though every possessive instinct shouted at him to fly straight into the Creche and land in the middle of their walled city, to search every inch until he found her, Rhys forced himself to land near the front gates.

The children might have shot him down, anyway. The rail cannons mounted around the top of the stone walls told him they were capable of it.

A boy of fourteen or fifteen years of age stood guard at the entrance, a steel pipe hooked to his belt. Judging by the boy's awestruck expression, the guard recognized him. As in most of England, Rhys was a hero to these children, but he didn't think that would get him any further than it had at the Blacksmith's.

"I'm looking for Anne the Tinker."

As if recalling that he had a duty to perform, the boy suddenly straightened, throwing back his shoulders. "We've heard."

Of course he had. The moment Rhys had left the Blacksmith's, one of the tinkers had probably sent a gram to the Creche, warning them. The children's communication system was faster and more efficient than any other in London.

"May I see her?"

"I'll ask if she wants to come out. Wait here."

If he hadn't been so ready to tear down the walls to look for her, Rhys might have been amused that the boy had told him to wait.

But it wasn't long. Only a minute pa.s.sed before the gate clanked open a few feet, and a slim girl in a blue tunic and trousers slipped through.

Anne. A yellow bruise marred her cheekbone, and a faint pink line that had once been a cut extended from the corner of her left eye-mostly healed now, but someone had put them there. Sudden rage shook him; helpless pain tore at his chest. Rhys didn't let her see it. She looked terrified, shoulders hunched and eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears.

He must seem like a giant towering over her. Rhys went down on his knee, extended his hand to her. "Are you all right?"

With her teeth digging into her bottom lip, she nodded. His heart pounded with dizzy relief as she put her palm in his.

Carefully, he pulled her into an embrace, closed his eyes when she threw her arms around his shoulders. G.o.d, he'd needed this. Needed to feel her little arms around him. How had he not known that before? "Come home," he said, voice thick. "Whatever happened, we'll help you."

She mumbled against his neck. "You might not want me anymore."

He couldn't bear that she might think so-not when he remembered saying it to Mina once. At the time, Rhys hadn't known how he'd hurt her, but he saw a similar pain now in this girl. He didn't know how, but he'd find some way to convince Anne that he would never not want her, for any reason.

But for now, he'd give her what he had.

"We do want you. I swear it." He smoothed her hair back from her face, looked her in the eyes. "All right?"

Though she still looked uncertain, the girl nodded. Perhaps that was all that she could give now, too. If it brought her home, it was enough.

He looked her quickly over when she stepped back. Except for the bruise and the cut, he didn't see any other injuries-and though he wanted to crush whoever had done this to her, Rhys wouldn't push her about it now. He'd wait until Mina was with him . . . but he wasn't certain whether to take her to Mina now, or to wait.

But there was one man here who'd know better than any other. "Is Mina's father here?"

"I'm here." Rockingham's voice answered. Rhys glanced up. Mina's father stood near the gate, with a sleeping infant cradled in his arm. The earl studied Anne for a long second, seemed satisfied by what he saw. "This baby was left at the gate a little while ago. Anne had just been helping me infect it with nanoagents when you arrived. Mina used to a.s.sist me when she was Anne's age, too."

Hearing that pleased the girl. Her face brightened.

"How many babies are left here?" Rhys wondered.

"Enough that I stay busy," Rockingham said, and Rhys wasn't surprised. A creche was a way of life for many of the others who'd been raised in one, too-they would never imagine keeping a child. The earl glanced at Anne before looking to Rhys again. "I sent a message on to Mina, letting her know that Anne was here, but she'll probably want to see her."

Anne's expression dimmed. "Will she be angry?"

Not if her reaction was anything like Rhys's had been.

"I think she'll be so glad to see you that nothing else will matter. But even if she is angry, she'll listen to you. And no matter what you've done, if she understands why you've done it, her anger will probably pa.s.s." Rhys knew this too well. Drunk, he'd once lost all sense and terrified Mina, forced himself on her. Nothing Anne could do would ever equal that trespa.s.s. Mina had forgiven him because he hadn't meant to hurt her, because he hadn't realized that he was frightening rather than pleasuring her-and because he'd been horrified when he had realized the truth of it. He hadn't deserved her pardon, but he thanked G.o.d that she'd given it. "She's an inspector, remember. She always considers motivations, intentions. Did you mean any harm?"

Eyes filling again, Anne shook her head.

"So tell her-and don't lie. If you do, she'll know, eventually. So even if you're ashamed of what happened, tell her the truth."

"All right." Her voice was thin, uncertain again. "Will we wait for her at home?"

Rhys didn't know. He looked to Mina's father, who knew how family worked, who knew what little girls needed. Rockingham gave a small nod.

"We'll wait at home," Rhys confirmed. "We'll send another message and let her know you'll be there when she comes home tonight. Now, I've got an empty seat in my balloon. Will you ride with me?"

Excitement lit the girl's face. Her familiar grin broke through. "Can I fly it?"

Fly it? Anxiety hollowed out his gut. Rhys looked to Rockingham again for advice, but the earl had disappeared back into the Creche.

G.o.d help him.

As useless as she'd been before Rhys's message arrived, Mina ought to have just gone to the Creche, too. But though she still worried and wondered what had kept Anne from home, she finally settled enough to focus on the task at hand: removing the metal bolt embedded deep in Redditch's chest.

"Look here, Newberry." With the tip of her pincers, she pointed to the edges of the entry wound. "What do you see?"

The constable's eyes seemed to bulge behind the lenses of his magnifying goggles. His throat worked as he bent over the body. After a year with her, Newberry no longer questioned the necessity of these morbid examinations, but the close inspection still proved difficult for him. He simply didn't have the stomach for it.

But at least he was trying, Mina thought. Many inspectors only conducted a cursory exam after bringing a body in, and even those inspectors who took more time often overlooked or misinterpreted physical evidence. She wished that it were mandatory for all of them to spend years a.s.sisting a surgeon or physician-as Mina had a.s.sisted her father-but the logistics were impossible. She sighed. At least Newberry would have developed a good eye by the time he advanced to inspector, and hopefully learn to keep down his dinner.

Or breakfast. He straightened again, breathing deep. It was incredible that he could see the worst sorts of injuries and mutilations in the street without this reaction, and yet the moment he magnified a bit of exposed muscle or organs, he was swaying like a seasick urchin.

Mina pursed her lips. Eventually, she would be promoted from inspector and leave the streets behind; she'd always intended to mimic Hale's career and take a supervisory role, but lately she'd begun to consider a position where she could perform these morbid exams, instead. Enough bodies came in to keep her fully occupied every day-and the dead deserved more than what many inspectors could give them.

Perhaps it would be easier on the inspectors, too.

"Constable?"

Newberry swallowed hard. "The edges are relatively clean, sir. There's a small amount of tearing, but they aren't ragged."

"And that means?"

"That bolt in his chest either has straight edges at the head to match, or more likely, it punched into him with great force-and probably not from very far away."

Perfect. "So let's see, shall we?"

She pushed the pincers in past broken ribs, gripped the end of the bolt. When she saw Newberry close his eyes and turn his head, as if to avoid hearing the sound, Mina said, "You lived in Manhattan City until last year. Did you know anything of Redditch then?"

"No, sir."

"Did you hear any gossip?"

"No, sir. Gossiping was punishable by a fine, so no one was likely to do it with a constable of the law."

Mina paused, looked up at him. To her knowledge, he'd never lied or exaggerated when giving details about life in Manhattan City, but some were so absurd that she automatically took them for a joke. Yet he wasn't joking at all, she realized. "A fine?"

"Yes, sir. Wagging tongues make idle hands." His cheeks reddened. "Of course I have heard gossiping, but none of it was about Lord Redditch. I was nowhere near the same society as he was."

No, of course not. Even under the Horde, the cla.s.ses in England had remained distinct, but those distinctions did not begin to approach the level of stratification in Manhattan City.

"Don't they have newssheets?" she wondered. Without gossip, there would be hardly anything for the journalists to report.

"We had pamphlets." He cleared his throat. "I also spoke to my wife last night."

"Did you? You must make a very fine husband, constable."

His color deepened to a lovely shade of beet. "About the murder, sir."

Mina grinned and focused on the bolt again. "What did she have to say? I recall that she's a viscount's granddaughter, isn't she?"

"Yes, sir, with marriages between her relations and Redditch's. His wife is a cousin several times removed."

And not likely to invite Temperance to tea. Newberry's wife had been ruined before she'd married him, and though she'd been dying of consumption, her family had not been able to ship her off to England fast enough and wash their hands of her. Mina didn't like to think that the amiable Lord Redditch wouldn't have allowed Temperance Newberry to step foot in his home, but she knew it was probably true.

Yes, there were many things about Manhattan City that she wished were a joke.

Mouth set, she slowly worked the bolt from his chest. "Continue, constable."

"There's not much to tell. Both families are of the Good Works sort."

"I have no idea what that means, Newberry."

A short silence fell. Mina glanced up. The constable's eyes appeared huge behind his goggles, and for a moment, he seemed taken aback-or at a loss to explain.

"But it's . . . Everyone is-" He shook his head, started again. "There are those who are saved, and there are those who aren't. We don't know who. But for those who work hard, who live frugally, you can see from the fruits of their labor whether they are one of those who have attained grace."

Ah. The old churches in England were mostly used for business and sleeping now, but the New Worlders kept their pews well-filled. "So what are the Good Works sort?"

"Well, they say the same, sir, and they make certain everyone else lives by it. But they're born with wealth, and don't labor for a bit of it-and they don't live frugally. They run a lot of charities, instead."

"Charities are worthwhile."

"I have no argument with that, sir. I do have an argument with anyone who has never labored a day in his life telling someone who has worked her fingers to the bone that if she just worked harder she wouldn't need charity."

The flush on his cheeks now wasn't embarra.s.sment, but anger or resentment. A surprising man, her Newberry. Mina wouldn't pry, wouldn't ask if that woman had been his mother or a friend, or simply someone he'd once seen.

"And so this is partially why Redditch was so adamant that the factories do not lose their workers. He wasn't just saving them from going hungry; he's saving their souls."

Newberry seemed to cringe at her phrasing, but he nodded. "In a manner of speaking."

She pursed her lips, considered that. "If a man can be judged by the fruits of his labor, my husband ought to be lounging on a gold throne in Heaven right now."

Newberry seemed to choke. After a few odd noises, he managed, "His Grace isn't all that frugal, sir. Or pious."

"I suppose not. And here is our bolt, constable." Made of steel, an inch and a half wide at the head, three inches long. "It has a mushroomed head, so it must have taken a great deal of force to penetrate as it did. Shot by a pneumatic launcher, maybe, since no one heard a gun."

"What of a rail gun?"

Mina considered that. Accelerated by electromagnetic forces, the bullets achieved high speeds and the guns made no sound when fired. "Perhaps. It would require electricity, but maybe there was a generator inside that wheel. d.a.m.n it. We need to find that blasted wheel."

Newberry's mustache twitched before his mouth suddenly firmed. "Yes, sir."

Her eyes narrowed. Oh, but that smile did not interest her as much as his reason for concealing it. "What amuses you, constable?"

For a moment she wondered if he would feign a misunderstanding. Then he said, "You do, sir."

Oh? Mina only had to arch her brows, and either his courage failed him or his good sense returned-as did the heat in his cheeks.

"Not you, sir!" he hastily amended. "I was simply thinking back to my expectations of you when we were first paired, given what I'd heard about your family from the other constables-and what little I knew of aristocrats."

"Gossiping, Newberry?"

He went from pink to red in the s.p.a.ce of a heartbeat. "No, sir. It was research."

"And what did you learn?"

"When I was told to whom I'd been a.s.signed, sir, I thought that meant I'd been a.s.signed to mind a woman who'd only been given a position because of her father's."

Ah. So Newberry had believed the earl's daughter had only become a detective inspector through her father's name and influence-and that Newberry had been a.s.signed to watch Mina while she bungled her way through the investigations.

Well, he wasn't entirely wrong. In the first years after the revolution, the police force couldn't be particular when hiring their constables or inspectors-they needed people to fill positions immediately. And although a woman like Superintendent Hale would have been acceptable at any time due to her experience in Manhattan City, the earl's status might very well have tied the superintendent's hands when Mina had applied her services to the force, and made Hale feel obligated to give Mina the job.

But the earl's daughter had remained on the job only because Hale had recognized how very good Mina was at it. And Hale hadn't given Mina an a.s.sistant to watch her b.u.mble about, but so that Mina could work unmolested.

"And although I once questioned your methods, sir, I cannot question the results. You're like a dog on a bone."

Mina had to laugh. Yes, perhaps she was. "This time, I am a dog chasing after a wheel. So let us finish here, and we'll begin knocking on doors again . . . and hopefully we'll sniff something out."